There Is a River

by Thomas Sugrue

  “Sure,” the reporter said. “Well, I want to catch the paper with this, so I’ll run along. Congratulations on your fame or notoriety, whichever it is.”

  When he had gone, Edgar looked again at the clippings, reading them over and over, trying to figure out what had happened.

  “In all, young Cayce has given more than 1,000 readings . . .”

  Probably he had, but not for Ketchum. Some of these reported were Layne’s cases—there was a description of the Dietrich experience, for instance. For Ketchum he had given only two sets of readings. He had succumbed twice to the doctor’s offer of transportation to and from Hopkinsville in return for his services. During the visits he had gone to Ketchum’s office each day, given readings, asked no questions, and requested only the assurance that the cases were all people in need of help.

  Apparently Ketchum, on a visit to California, had told some tall tales and, when asked to elaborate them in a scientific paper, had rounded up all the available evidence in Hopkinsville. It made a good story.

  What interested Edgar most was the explanation of the phenomenon, which he was supposed to have given in a reading:

  Our subject, while under auto-hypnosis, on one occasion, explained as follows:

  When asked to give the source of his knowledge, he being at this time in the subconscious state, he stated: “Edgar Cayce’s mind is amenable to suggestion, the same as all other subconscious minds, but in addition thereto it has the power to interpret to the objective mind of others what it acquires from the subconscious mind of other individuals of the same kind. The subconscious mind forgets nothing. The conscious mind receives the impression from without and transfers all thought to the subconscious, where it remains even though the conscious be destroyed.” He described himself as a third person, saying further that his subconscious mind is in direct communication with all other subconscious minds, and is capable of interpreting through his objective mind and imparting impressions received to other objective minds, gathering in this way all the knowledge possessed by millions of other subconscious minds.

  So that was it. Well, it didn’t mean much, because it didn’t tell why he could do what others could not. Apparently his mind was not different from others’ except that it could work backward. If all people were like him, they could all be hypnotized and would then be able to send back through the conscious what their subconscious minds knew.

  Apparently God did not intend it that way. He made man to walk through the world in darkness except for what he learned by experience and what he believed by faith.

  Why, then, was he different? The vision of the lady was the answer, if he could accept it. Sometimes he could; he accepted it on that March night when he stood in the cold still air and knew that Carrie’s baby had been saved. Sometimes he couldn’t accept it: when he washed his hands and saw that they were the rough tools of a workman; when he shaved in the morning and saw that his face wore the countenance of a simple, uneducated man who was wishful, stubborn, sentimental, even foolish at times; when he sat at night reading his Bible and knew that he was a country boy with far less magic in all of his being than was contained in the stem of a May flower.

  President James Hyslop of the American Psychic Society has made suggestions in regard to the development of the subject’s powers. Other psychologists in Europe and America are seeking information, and Dr. Ketchum’s plan is to have a committee of scientists of the highest standing come to Hopkinsville and investigate in most rigid manner and make a report as to the truth of what is claimed but not understood.

  Edgar went to his desk and got his mail. What was up? Were the scientists about to descend on him? Gertrude’s letter didn’t enlighten him. All she knew was what she had seen in the newspapers. She wanted to know what he was going to do. His mother’s letter gave part of the story.

  “Dr. Ketchum didn’t give your name in his original report,” she wrote, “but the newspapermen came to town in droves and found everything out. They stole the pictures off the living room walls, and I didn’t even know it until I saw them in the newspapers. It’s been terribly confusing. The house has been full of people all of the time. I hope that it will be for the best. Your father is very proud.”

  There was a letter from Ketchum, too. He offered no explanation of what he had done. Instead he urged Edgar to come back to Hopkinsville and make a business of giving readings. A company would be formed: Ketchum, the squire, and Mr. Albert D. Noe, owner of the Latham Hotel in Hopkinsville, were already in partnership on the deal. If Edgar would cooperate, he would be made a full partner. All they wanted to know was what terms he would accept for his services. They would agree to anything reasonable, and so far as Ketchum was concerned there was no such word as unreasonable. “You can have what you want,” he wrote.

  Edgar snapped off the light. For the rest of the night he sat in the dark studio, staring through the skylight windows at the stars. His hour had come: he had to make up his mind about himself and his strange power.

  It should, he knew, be an easy decision. He wanted to believe that God had given him a gift to be used to help humanity. But he was like Moses. He could not believe it had happened to him. One thing was certain: it was a talent, not a trick, not a maladjustment, not an ailment. He was a well man; he had been well for years, except for the trouble with his voice.

  It was not something that demanded an unnatural condition of his body. He did not need to get himself into a mood by burning incense, listening to music, or muttering incantations. He did not need darkness. He did not find it necessary to abstain from certain foods. He smoked whenever he wanted to smoke.

  It did not require religious ecstasy, prayers, or even a period of quiet and meditation beforehand. All that was necessary was that he be in normal health and that his stomach have finished with its digestion of the last meal.

  It did not tire him. He usually awakened feeling refreshed. He always felt hungry, but a cracker and a glass of milk satisfied this feeling. He could not do it more than twice a day without feeling a sense of weariness and depletion, but it was not reasonable to expect so complicated a procedure to be executed more often.

  So it was, apparently, something that was natural to him—something like an ability to write, or paint, or sing. It was an expression of himself. He wanted to help people, just as comedians wanted to make people laugh. This was the way which had been given to him for the satisfaction of his desire. He had only to use it for that intended purpose.

  Obviously it was not meant that he help only a select few, such as the members of his family or those who heard about it from persons who had been helped, like the Dietrichs. It was a gift of God, destined for everyone.

  But a gift of God could be controlled by the devil. Every talent could choose one of two masters, and in his case the choice was not entirely his own. When he used his talent, he was asleep.

  Who would watch, to see that it was not misused? How would he know whether his mind was up to good or evil?

  Blackburn had always contended that his sleep mind contained his conscience and could not be led astray. He pointed to the collapse on New Year’s Eve as an example of the guardianship of the sleep mind over the body. On the other hand, Edgar had himself said, in a reading, “Edgar Cayce’s mind is amenable to suggestion, the same as all other subconscious minds.” Those other subconscious minds, when in a state of hypnosis, would do whatever they were told to do. So would his mind, apparently, for did it not seek out people and diagnose their ailments? Suppose it was told to do something else—give information that would be valuable for unscrupulous purposes? Would it do it?

  His only safeguard would be himself. If he remained incorruptible in his own life, and prayed for guidance and help while giving readings, surely God would not let him be duped.

  That was the best he could do—and it was his duty to do it, for all those who needed help. And for Cousin Ike.

 
The memory of Cousin Ike had always haunted him. Years before, when he was working with Layne, Ike had come to them for help. He had been to many doctors; they had not helped him. He was in bad shape. A reading was given, Layne began treating him, and he improved. He moved into town and stayed with the squire in the house on West Seventh Street, so he could be near Layne’s office. Then Layne was ordered to cease practice. Ike got worse. He sent for Edgar, who had come to Hopkinsville for the weekend.

  He was very ill that day. His wife and daughters were with him. He waved them out.

  “Let me talk to Old Man alone,” he said.

  He asked Edgar to sit beside him. Then he took his hand and said:

  “How do you do this stuff, Old Man? How do you tell people what is wrong with them? How does Layne know how to treat people as you tell him to?”

  Edgar told him he didn’t know. He repeated his experiences, except for the vision of the lady.

  “Listen to me,” Ike said. “I’ve known your mother and father since they were little children. I was present when they were married. I’ve known you since the day you were born. I saw you every day of your life until a few years ago. I know you are unusual in some ways—your knowledge of the Bible, for one thing. But this other thing—do you think it is some trick you’ve learned under Layne’s guidance?”

  Edgar shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I’m a dying man,” Ike said. “They say a dying man has wisdom in his words. I don’t know, but I want to tell you to consider this thing you have, find out what it is, and act accordingly. Is it a gift of God? I think it must be.

  “I have been ill for years. I’ve been to hospitals all over the country. They kept me in them for weeks at a time, then let me go and told me they didn’t know what my trouble was. Then you, a boy I’ve known all my life, laid down, went to sleep, and told me what was wrong with me. What’s more, you told a man who doesn’t know anything about doctoring what to do to bring me relief, and when he did it I got relief—more than I ever got from all the other treatments I took.

  “Now they’ve stopped Layne from practicing and I’m getting worse fast. I’m going to die.

  “But you, Old Man, you’ve got to keep going with this thing. Don’t let anybody stop you from helping people with it. You may never understand it, but if it comes from God and you are faithful to the trust He put in you when He gave it to you, it won’t bring you to harm.”

  He released Edgar’s hand.

  “I must rest now,” he said. “Send me Pearl.”

  Edgar went out of the room and sent Pearl, one of the daughters, to take care of her father.

  He never saw Ike again. Without Layne’s treatments he failed rapidly. What was really wrong with him no one ever knew. The reading had said he suffered from a growth on the side of the peritoneum—a long thread which could have been removed by operation in the early stages, but was now too far advanced. Surgery would mean death. Layne had given him magnetic treatments and massage.

  So Ike died. His time had run out anyhow, but it could have been lengthened and made more comfortable had the treatments been continued. There were others who could be helped in the same way. There were younger people. There were children.

  He had been staring through the skylight windows at the stars. Now the stars were fading. Dawn was near. Things in the studio became visible in outline. On the desk before him he saw his Bible.

  In a few minutes he would be able to read it by the morning light. He would let it guide him.

  He opened it, put his finger in the middle of the left-hand page and waited for the words to become visible. When they did, he read them:

  PSALM 46

  God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble.

  Therefore will we not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;

  Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.

  There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God . . .

  He stopped reading and began a letter to Ketchum.

  “On certain conditions,” he wrote, “I will accept your offer. It is to be understood that my father will act as conductor of all readings, and that a stenographic account of all that is said be taken down, and at least two copies of it made, one for the patient and one for our files. No readings are to be given except for sick people who make the request themselves.

  “Furthermore, it must be understood that I am not to consider this as a profession or a means of livelihood. The company which has been formed is to completely equip for me a photographic studio, which is to be mine to conduct, as a means of my livelihood. The company is to equip another office for the readings, which I will give twice a day. Not less than five hundred dollars is to be spent on the equipment of the photographic studio, for the materials are to be all of the best . . .”

  When the letter arrived in Hopkinsville, Ketchum was amused. He showed it to the squire and Mr. Noe, the genial hotel man who was their partner.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s got,” Ketchum said.

  They wired Edgar to come to Hopkinsville at once. When he arrived, they showed him the mail: nearly ten thousand letters. Some of them contained money; there was more than $2,000 in cash.

  “What shall we do with it?” Ketchum asked.

  “Send it back,” Edgar said. “We don’t want any money until the goods are delivered.”

  They set about drawing up a contract. First there was a special reading, at which the city, county, and circuit judges were present, along with several lawyers. They were asked to give an opinion on the legality of selling information from such a source. They said they knew of no law prohibiting it. The state medical authorities were asked for an opinion. They replied that nothing could prevent such a practice unless a law were enacted against it, and because of the peculiar nature of the operation such a law would have to name Edgar specifically, and since this in itself was unconstitutional, it appeared that nothing whatever could be done to hinder the enterprise.

  The terms of the contract were those set by Edgar, plus the provision, offered by Noe and Ketchum, that he receive fifty per cent of the gross receipts. He was to divide this with the squire. Noe and Ketchum were to receive the other fifty per cent, and pay the rent and all expenses from it.

  “How much will it cost to get the photographic equipment you want?” Noe asked Edgar.

  “About five hundred dollars,” he said.

  Noe handed him five hundred-dollar bills.

  “Get what you want,” he said.

  Edgar stared at the money. He had never seen a hundred-dollar bill before.

  The furniture for the office was dazzling. It included a special couch, handmade, standing high from the floor, so that the person who gave the suggestion had to stand in order to talk to Edgar. He couldn’t see the sense of it: it looked dramatic, but it only succeeded in keeping the squire, who did the suggesting, on his feet during the whole of the reading. A stenographer sat at a table nearby.

  The stationery also tended toward the dramatic. The letterhead contained a picture of “Edgar Cayce, Jr., Psychic Diagnostician.” The “Jr.” was a bit of folk etymology. The uncle for whom Edgar was named now lived in Hopkinsville. To distinguish between the two the townspeople referred to one as Edgar and one as Edgar, Jr., though everyone was aware that they were uncle and nephew. The printer, when he got the order for the stationery, put the “Jr.” on without a second thought.

  The job of sending the money back was laborious. Edgar wrote most of the letters himself, offering to make appointments and, if the readings were satisfactory, take payment. There was no set price for a reading, and this annoyed him. Noe and Ketchum seemed to think it better to proceed on the plan used by all physicians: a final bill
to include all services. There might be more than one reading; there might be medical supervision by Ketchum.

  Edgar made a habit of reading the stenographic transcript of each reading. He wanted to find out what was coming out of him while he was asleep. The stuff amazed him: it read like a scientific fairy tale, a witch doctor’s dream, or some mumbo-jumbo plucked out of an encyclopedia.

  “We find in this body a degenerate condition of the white matter in the nerve tissues . . . a lack of connection between the sympathetic and cerebrospinal nervous systems . . . a lesion at the seventh dorsal . . .”

  After each session he went back to the photographic studio in a state of complete confusion. He had thought that a study of the transcripts might help his conscious mind to understand what it was that his subconscious mind did. If he understood a little medicine, the thing might not seem so strange and improbable to him. He might learn to believe in it implicitly, from a faith within himself, instead of spasmodically, as a reflection of other people’s belief. But the words blurred before his eyes. The language was too technical. He was worse off than before.

  One of the first out-of-town visitors to the new office was a man from Nortonville, Kentucky, a town about thirty-five miles north of Hopkinsville. He introduced himself as Frank E. Mohr.

  “I bought a coal mine recently from a man in Nortonville named Elgin,” he told Edgar. “When I was discussing price and terms I asked him if there were another vein in the mine. He said he didn’t know because the place hadn’t been surveyed or examined by engineers.

  “I asked him how he knew where to dig. He said he came over here and got a man named Layne to ask a fellow named Cayce about it, while Cayce was asleep. He said that Cayce told him to dig in Nortonville where the L. & N. and I.C. railroads cross. That’s where the mine is located. Are you the fellow who did it?”